This blog is a giant middle finger to the notion of resolutions. With each passing year, I realize I cannot be something I’m not. 

However, usually around 2 p.m. on Jan. 1, when the headache, pity and personal disgust set in and I’m lying in bed with a half-eaten pastry from 7-Eleven inches from my face, ruminating about every dumb thing I said from last night to the last time I rolled around in sugar dust, the vows start accumulate.

The usual suspects: 

1. To drink less. (2001, 2002, 2003, 2007, 2008)

2. To be a famous writer. (2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010)

3. To stop dating emotionally retarded men. (2002, 2008, 2009)

Even if you’re just tuning in here for the first time, you can plainly see that little progress has been made in conquering this list over the years. (With exception of #3. As someone who spills her feelings for pleasure, non-emoting has become a dealbreaker.)

However, on the first day of this here 2011, I didn’t wake up in a stooper of sweat and regret. Why? Well, for one reason, I didn’t expect NYE and the day after to be bigger and better than it should be. I took three things I love - booze, butt rock, my boyfriend - and made it an evening. I got drinks tossed all over me, fisted double vodka sodas, belted out “My Michelle” and made out in front of strangers. Yup, that’s just what I do.

And why my New Year’s resolution is to keep trusting myself.

So let’s do this 2011 thing already, so I can continue to write blog posts and fill out my own SASE rejection envelopes because I believe these actions will help me cross #2 of my list. Um, that is of course if I still cared about such lists that I just spent 300 words condemning.  

(Above: Using Your Illusion (I and II) of disillusion and the makings of a good NYE.)